“We could put him on salads,” Dad said, obviously worrying over the same question as me.
“He doesn’t want to come to our Thanksgiving,” I said, though Barry probably would really, really want that. “He’s Canadian. Plus, he’ll probably spend the break with his family.” They look rich and very shiny. I imagine they go to a country club every Sunday and golf or whatever it is you do there. I imagined eating lots of seafood. Maybe swimming? Were there indoor pools at country clubs?
The Harveys, in comparison, got discounts to the bowling alley on account of our league.
“The hockey break is short. If he’s in town, he has to come,” Dad said. “Nonnegotiable. If he wants to help with the baby, he has to be part of our traditions.”
I didn’t bring up again how temporary a part of me expected this to be. Barry seemed earnest in being all-in, at least for now, but a not-small part of me worried about the truth of that. He could decide to be done with us in a month, and that would be easier than if he decided to sue me for full custody in a year. I’m not sure what case he’d have, but he had professional hockey player money, so he’d be able to pull something off. That’s how it works. I’ve seenSuccession.
“I’ll ask,” I said. “No promises. Now can we please drop it?”
Reluctantly, the two of them agreed, and I downed the rest of my drink, gulping it through the straw and trying not to taste it.
CHAPTER 7
HOUSE TOUR
When I said Barry could stay with me, I didn’t think he took that to mean immediately. My fault for giving him my address. At 6:40 p.m., just as I was gearing up for Friday Fright Night, Barry was at my door. He carried a suitcase in one hand, his new team duffle across his chest, and a box under his other arm.
“You’re here,” I said.
His hair was wet like it had just been washed, maybe after a practice or a workout, and he had a crisp new Utah Raptors hoodie on.
“Yep,” he said. We stood there for a few moments before he nodded behind me.
“Right.” I stepped back and waved my arm in the direction of the house for him to enter. His head just passed under the height of the doorway, but he crouched anyway. Maybe he thought I’d change my mind if his roommate test-run didn’t start immediately. He might have been right.
“Come on in,” I muttered.
“Thanks.” He toed off his tennis shoes and lined them neatly next to my own pile of shoes.
“Was practice good?”
“Pretty good. Though I was short on M&M’s.”
I was about to feel bad or apologize when I realized he was joking. He was actuallyteasing me.
“Five bags weren’t enough?”
“You’re right, I guess I can share with hungry janitors.”
This is how inside jokes were formed: something happens,and then someone brings it up, and in no time at all it’s this little intimacy added to your shared vocabulary. The thought made my chest hot.
We stood and stared at each other in the doorway, which was also my living room. Greg Junior meowed, as he always did when attention wasn’t immediately given by new visitors.
Barry looked at Junior, who sat alert but aloof between us, then dropped his suitcase and box before crouching down.
“Who is this?” Barry asked. He didn’t immediately try to pet Junior, instead letting the tabby cat sniff the back of his hands before scratching behind his ears. Good sign.
“Shit, are you allergic? I forgot to ask.”
“No, I love cats.” Barry picked up Junior with one hand and cradled the cat to his chest. Junior did not protest, instead purring and moving his head around for more scratches. Kate would hate seeing how good Junior was being for Barry. She and Junior got along just fine, but she hated how much hair he shed, and Junior could sense that about her. Their relationship was more Junior rubbing against her legs sometimes, her throwing him bits of turkey.
“His name is Greg Junior, but we call him Junior. Or J.R., or like poop face, little guy, teeny butt, whatever. He answers to a lot.”
“Hm.” Barry scratched Junior’s head and then looked up at the rest of the living room. From here, he could also see into the kitchen and the hall leading to the bedrooms and bathroom. My room wasnotclean, little piles of laundry—one clean, some dirty—scattered around the floor.
“Um…” I locked the front door and walked past Barry and the cat toward the kitchen. “I’ll give you a little tour.”
